An Extension of Himself
by AntipodesAnnie
Summary: Memories of his Colt leaves Dean thinking about his life


He looked at the gun as it lay there among all the other weapons they learned they needed along the way. It wasn't a special gun; it didn't do anything any other gun didn't do. It had a magazine that held seven rounds like any other gun. Sure the rounds were sometimes made of silver, sometimes iron and sometimes engraved. Sure they killed most things eventually and sure the rounds were special but the gun, the Colt 1911, wasn't.

He remembered when he got the gun but his first memory of it was long before that. His dad had a Colt just like it, he had "acquired" his when he was in the Marines and claimed it was the best gun there was. He couldn't be sure though because it was the one gun his dad never let him use. He used to watch his dad and think he would have a gun of his own one day, not one of the kit guns his dad owned and let him use. His dad used to hold, no not hold, _cradle_ that gun like it was the last best thing he owned. When he asked him what was so special about the gun his dad replied nothing, a gun isn't special son. It just does special things.

And even though he was only eight years old, he already knew what those special things were.

When he first saw the gun, he was ten years old and it was in the hands of someone else. The hands belonged to an old friend of his dads, someone who he was left with when his dad went on particularly long "business trips". He recognised the gun as soon as he saw it. It was a Colt, the same as his dads, only this one was different. Where his dad's colt was black and dull, this one was bright with engraving all over the stock with a white handle. It was the most beautiful gun he had ever seen. It seemed strange that this amazing gun did the same things that his dad's gun did. It didn't seem right that something that looked like this could do the same messy things.

He watched as the old man turned the gun over in his hands, pulled it apart and put it back together again. He watched as every part of the gun was cleaned and polished. He expected it to be put away somewhere special and safe so only important people would see it. What he didn't expect was the old man to hand it to him. Did you see what I was doing, what I did? Yes. Good now you do it.

It became tradition. Every time he went to the old man's house he got out the gun, stripped it, cleaned it and put it back together. But he never once shot it. He never felt the weight of a fully loaded magazine. He never heard the sound of the safety clicking or a round entering the chamber. He never felt the resistance of the trigger or the recoil when it was finally pulled. But that didn't mean he didn't know that gun inside and out and in his mind it was _his_ gun.

He was twelve and stripping the gun for the third time that day when the old man asked him about his new necklace. He told him about his brother giving to him instead of his dad when his dad didn't come home for Christmas. He told him about his brother finding his dad's journal and about him finding a gun under his pillow. Which gun, the old man had asked. He looked down at the gun he was holding, running his fingers over the engraving and thought about the gun under the pillow. Just a gun from the bag, nothing special.

He didn't find the ivory handled Colt until he unpacked his bag at the next motel. He didn't tell his dad straight away, he just wanted to hold it for a while. He wanted just for a moment to pretend it was his and he was going to be able to keep it. He found the note a little while later, small tidy letters on a scrappy piece of paper; brief and to the point, much like the old man himself. It should be special, take it and make it special.

And so here he was, years later, looking at the gun. Just a gun, nothing special.

When did he forget how beautiful it was with its ivory handle, nickel plating and engraving? When did he forget that it was balanced to perfection and rested in his hand like it was an extension of himself?

And maybe it was. Someone once told him he had delicate features for a hunter, maybe he was just like his gun. All pretty and shiny and admired but when stripped down to their inner workings what remained was simple. Both had the same simple purpose. I am here to protect you. I will try to keep you safe. And if I have to, if you make me, I will kill you. Did the old man know that when he gave him the gun. Did he know that one day he would turn that gun over and over in his hands just like his dad used to do. Did he know that when he looked at the gun, all he saw was himself, covered with unnecessary decoration hiding its single purpose.

But he had forgotten so many other things about the gun as well. He forgot how it made him feel when he first held it in his hands. He forgot how safe he felt when he was sitting in the old man's house cleaning it. And he forgot how the first time he slept with it under his pillow was also the first time he slept through the night. And he had forgotten the most important thing of all. He had forgotten the gun was special.

But he was right about one thing, the gun was just like him. Just like his life. It should be special, take it and make it special. And he had done just that.

If only he hadn't forgotten that too.


End file.
